The Spirits Are Willing   (Standard, all-purpose disclaimer) All
pre-existing characters are the property of the creators and producers of
"Due South." No copyright infringement is intended. All new characters and
situations are the sole property and responsibility of the author. 

**MEMO FROM BUFFY** 

Katrina and I had an arm-wrestling match to see who got the computer this
weekend. Fortunately, Evil Twins (tm) never fight fair. This is a sequel
to "Changing Your Demeanor" and "Manny Came, Too," both of which can be
found on the fine DS Archive. 

Warning: This story contains leprechauns and assorted nymphs. No goats. 

 THE SPIRITS ARE WILLING 

by Buffy 

The Mountie stared impassively at traffic and passersby. Here, on guard at
the Canadian consulate, Benton Fraser was a symbol of his nation. He was a
representative of his country. He was -- 

Two figures materialized, one on either side of him. 

He was in big trouble. 

On his left, a woman with a tumble of waist-length red curls and not much
in the way of clothing stood on tiptoe to kiss Ben's cheek affectionately.
"*Good* morning, Ben darling! Ooh, you look so *handsome* in that nice red
suit!" Brushing away the yellow petals that had fallen out of her hair
onto Ben's uniform, Medora the dryad twitched her filmy green gown into
even more disarray. Ben studiously looked away. 

Several pedestrians slowed, but none showed much interest. While the
leprechaun *was* out of season, and dryads rare at any time of the year,
the populace of Chicago had come to expect strange goings-on at the
Canadian consulate. 

Horace the leprechaun smiled benevolently up at Ben. "Aye, 'tis a fine
morning indeed, laddie. This wee lassie wanted to come for a visit, and,
truth be told, I'm getting fond of this old town." Horace turned to the
dryad. "So, darlin', ye can stay here and chat with this young man. I
think I'll be checking out the rest o' the building." Tipping his hat to
the Mountie, Horace turned and entered the consulate. 

Ben's eyes widened. The thought of more leprechauns -- or even one --
invading the consulate appalled him. He had to do something! He could
leave his post, try to talk Horace out of it, maybe take him out for a
beer. Then Ben thought of the Inspector. **Oh dear. She'd be so unhappy if
I left my post....** 

Medora stared up at him, her head tilted winsomely to one side. As Ben had
learned from bitter experience, Medora specialized in winsomeness. Her
wide emerald eyes blinked slowly. "Darling, please don't take this the
wrong way, but -- and I *do* love your little suit, it's just lovely --
but I think a blue uniform would be better. It would bring out the color
of your eyes splendidly, I think." 

Stoically, Ben stared past her. Medora turned her head, shrugged, and
looked back at Ben. She started running a finger along the leather strap
traversing the Mountie's chest. "Oh, I *do* like this bit right here. It's
so... manly. And that reminds me! Horace and I dropped off Gia and Lalage
at your friend's house. He wasn't home, and they were *so* sad, but then
his sister came down and they all decided to go shopping." Medora frowned
prettily. "Ben, darling, what *is* lingerie?" 

Ben didn't react. Medora stared up at him, puzzled. She turned to the
street, then back again. "Dearest, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but
it's very rude to refuse to answer people." 

There was no answer from Ben. Medora stood and waited. Ben stiffened his
spine even more. Medora's tiny chin quivered, and a single tear ran down
her alabaster cheek. The flowers in her hair started to wilt. "Don't you
*like* me anymore?" More tears streamed from her eyes, which had darkened
to forest green. 

Ben fought down an impulse to dig out his handkerchief. Doing his best to
move as few facial muscles as possible, he whispered, "I'm on guard duty.
I'm not allowed to talk." 

Medora's tears dried and her flowers perked up. "Ohhhhh! *I* understand!
Should I help you guard? Then you'll get done sooner and we can go. The
naiads are all down in Grant Park. They said they were going to try out
the pond. Doesn't that sound like fun?" She beamed up at him. "Well,
doesn't it?" 

"Medora, I can't talk, remember?" Ben's eyes darted back and forth. He was
sure someone was going to report him, this was going to go on his service
record... "At 11:27 on June the 10th, Constable Fraser did knowingly and
with premeditation consort with a dryad while on duty." There were surely
regulations against that. Of course, since there were no dryads, in fact
no nymphs of *any* kind in Canada, perhaps not.... 

"Whoopsie!" Medora put a hand over her mouth. "I forgot. No talking," she
added in a theatrical whisper. Standing next to Ben, the dryad did her
best to copy the Mountie's stance. She clasped 

her hands behind her back and threw her chest out. She looked down at
herself and threw it out a little more. 

"Darling, do you think I should let this slip just a little... ah, yes.
*Much* more comfortable. Your friend's sister gave me a copy of _Vogue_,
and it said that a lot of dresses for human women were leaving one
shoulder bare this year. And I just don't see why they stop at the
shoulder, do you?" Medora glanced up at Ben to see if he'd answer. She
blinked in surprise. "Why, darling, how *very* clever of you! You've
turned your face the *exact* color of your uniform!" 

*********************************************************************** 

Inspector Margaret Thatcher didn't bother to glance up from her paperwork
as she heard her office door open. "Just leave the files on my desk,
Constable... Constable?" 

Thatcher looked around her office. Her door was open, but there was no
sign of Constable Turnbull. **Typical.** Shaking her head, she got up from
her desk. She shut the door and turned around. 

And she froze. 

Horace cocked his head and stared up at her. "So ye're the lassie that
runs this place." He looked her up and down. "Ah, and ye have the wisdom
to not wear the uniform. Oh, sure and it's an interesting piece of
tailoring, but those trousers wouldn't do much for your thighs. Oh, they
look well enough on young Ben out there, but...." Horace shrugged. "Your
curves are in different places, ye see." 

The inspector finally remembered that in order to speak, she needed to
breathe. "What... *are* you?" 

Rolling his eyes, Horace climbed up into a chair. "Well, let's see now. A
wee little man with an Irish brogue, dressed all in green... I thought
Mounties were taught deductive reasoning?" Thatcher gaped at him.
Enunciating clearly, Horace said, "I am a leprechaun." 

"A... leprechaun?" 

Horace nodded patiently. "Aye, lassie. That's right. A leprechaun.
*Leprechaunus Potogoldus*, if ye want to get technical." 

Thatcher backed away slowly. She sank down in her chair. "I... I don't
believe you. There's no such thing as leprechauns." 

"All right." Horace pulled his pipe out of his pocket. "I'll make ye a
deal. If I don't exist, I promise to disappear in a puff of green smoke."
He sat and stared at Thatcher for a few seconds. "Oh, look, I'm still
here. Looks like I exist after all, lassie. Surely now, ye've come across
supernatural beings before this. Why, Manny -- he's a manitou, ye know,
the nicest chap ye'd want to meet now that he's loosened up a bit -- tells
me that there are all manner of forest spirits up in Canada." 

Trying to collect her thoughts, Thatcher gazed at her intercom. Fraser was
outside on guard duty, and Turnbull would be worse than no use at all.
Absently, she answered, "Well, of course I've met spirits. But they're --
well, that is to say -- Canadian spirits are much more... reserved. They
stay in the forests -- they don't bother us, and we don't bother them." 

Sighing, Horace leaned back in his chair. "Ah, lassie, ye shouldn't be so
narrow-minded. It'll make ye sour before your time." 

Thatcher glared down at the leprechaun. "I'll have you know that I'm
*very* open-minded." 

Horace snorted. "Sure ye are. And I'm the Lord of the Dance." 

Furious, Thatcher shot to her feet. "There you go! You're just like the
rest of them! Passing judgement on me, thinking I'm shrill and hysterical
and -- and -- you're all *jealous* of me! That's what it is! Jealousy!"
Her voice rose higher and higher. "You hear me? Why can't anyone accept
that I'm a cool, rational, competent -- yet also feminine and caring -- " 

Turnbull stuck his head in the office. "Pardon me, sir -- I know how you
hate to have your tirades interrupted." 

Thatcher stopped windmilling her arms and she smoothed her hair down.
"That... that's quite all right, Constable. Did you want something?" 

Fidgeting, Turnbull sidled into the office. "Well, it's just that there's
a... um, there's a -- a lady? -- yes, a lady out front with Constable
Fraser, and she's got her --" Turnbull gestured vaguely to one side of his
chest. "Well, that is, she's got one of her, um, oh dear, sir. Sir, maybe
you should just look out your window." 

Thatcher gave Turnbull a questioning look, but the constable had just
spotted Horace and seemed further beyond rational speech than usual.
Opening her window, she stuck her head out the window. She was silent for
long moments, and then: 

"I don't believe -- I mean, he dug a hairpin out of my *cleavage*! If
that's not a sign of true love, I don't know -- and besides that, I can
keep my balance on top of a moving train! Can that little hussy do that?"
Leaning out the window, Thatcher shouted, "Hey! Yeah, that's right, you!
Get away from my Mountie!" 

Pulling herself back in, Thatcher stalked to the door. "I'll show *her* a
thing or two. I'll bet those are hair extensions --" Flinging 

the door open, she hurried down the hallway. 

"Oh. Oh, my." Turnbull swallowed unhappily. "Do you think I should...." 

Horace slid down from the chair. Putting his pipe away, he shooed Turnbull
out of the office. "What I think, laddie, is that ye better get down there
to keep the poor woman from hurting herself." 

*********************************************************************** 

Ben's eyes closed in relief as he heard the clock across the stree strike
noon. **Finally!** He turned to Medora. "Well, it's certainly been nice
guarding with you, but I'm afraid --" He stiffened as he heard a shrill
voice from inside the consulate making threatening references to
unfaithful Mounties and ringletted tramps. Ben looked down at Medora. "Did
you say the naiads were in Grant Park?" 

"That's right, darling." Refastening her dress, Medora smiled brightly.
"And the sylphs are going to meet us there, and they're bringing the
picnic baskets -- oh, and I'm *sure* Gia and Lalage are done shopping, and
they've probably gone to fetch your cute friend, and doesn't that sound
like *fun*?" 

Ben contemplated the matter rapidly. **Stay here and be berated by an
enraged inspector, or go frolic with some nymphs.... Perhaps I *have* been
in Chicago too long,** Ben thought, offering his arm to the dryad. As they
hurried down the street, he asked, "Do we have time to pick up
Diefenbaker?" 

"Oh, of course! What's a picnic without a sweet, fuzzy old wolf?" Without
breaking her stride, Medora pulled a rose from her hair and fastened it to
Ben's uniform. "See? I *told* you that you'd learn to appreciate us!" 

Horace appeared beside them. "Aye, laddie. Somewhere down the road, ye'll
be blessing the day we met." 

And Ben began to suspect that the leprechaun was correct. 

Katrina Bowen~~~~~kbowen@willowtree.com~~~~~buffy@jumpgate.net~~~~~ 

The trouble with having an open mind, of course, is that people will
insist on coming along and trying to put things in it. --Terry Pratchett